


We're Going to Fight

by stillgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, FIFA World Cup, FIFA World Cup 2018, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 07:29:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15189845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillgold/pseuds/stillgold
Summary: Ronaldo and Messi have hated each other for as long as they can remember. But then one day, Cris sees something that changes everything. It’s easier than Cris imagines to start to like Messi, easier than anything and more frightening.





	We're Going to Fight

**Author's Note:**

> here testing out a hypothesis. 
> 
> also, i know i have a fic to finish and also comments to reply to, but i'm lazy so :D also i'm bogged down with work and today was my first day off so naturally i had to capitalise!
> 
> i haven't proofed this so if it's full of mistakes, well that's the side effects of laziness.

Cristiano Ronaldo hated Lionel Messi.

 

It was hard not to, frankly. It was the tedium of being compared to the same dude, week after week, month after month, and, yes, year after fucking year. It was exhausting. When he’d been at his lowest, he’d been compared to Messi.

 

And at his best? Then, too.

 

It was never ending. And sickening. Sometimes, when someone even mentioned the name “Leo”, he felt his stomach clench in reaction, a sick swoop of sensation that made him both anxious and then angry at himself for being anxious.

 

The funniest—or maybe saddest—part was that the hate had never started because of something personal between the two of them. No, it had always been the press. The constant, endless comparisons. He hated how it had altered his mindset, how when he had a good weekend, he waited eagerly for someone to tell if him if it was good or bad news.

 

(He couldn’t quite check himself—it was too embarrassing. It was easy to figure out, though. If Messi had a shitty weekend, all his friends and family were quick to gleefully inform him. If he heard nothing, well, Cris understood what that meant.)

 

He hated that when he had a bad week, he felt sick to his stomach when Messi scored a hattrick. Or won an award. Because his name was always in there somewhere. Either openly, or you’d have to scroll all the way down to the comments, and there it was: someone either making fun of him or someone defending him.

 

He hated it.

 

He wished he didn’t have to live a life of relativity. Because that was it, wasn’t it? All his accomplishments were only relative. Relative to Messi.

 

He’d probably feel guilty if it was all one-sided but he knew Messi hated him too. Probably for the same reasons. Or maybe he hated him for other reasons. Who knew? Did it matter? They were both so competitive—winners had to be—that it was inevitable that they’d dislike each other.

 

And the thing was, it had been a professional hatred for so long and, suddenly, inexplicably, it had turned personal. Cris didn’t even remember how it happened. It had happened so gradually, increment by increment. The only concrete thing he remembered was his resentment at Messi’s continued insistence that he didn’t care about individual awards, his constant stress on team accomplishments.

 

What a liar.

 

Of course Messi cared. Even if he didn’t care as much as Cris, he bloody cared. He hated that people like to paint it as Cris wanting to win all the awards, as if Messi was a martyr who didn’t want a single Ballon D’Or.

 

And then, he couldn’t remember how it happened, but there had been that conversation a few years ago at an award ceremony. Cris didn’t even remember which ceremony—they’d been to so many together.

 

There had been no cameras, no witnesses, just the two of them backstage alone, and Messi had had his traditional stoic, cold expression. After an initial polite greeting and a small, uninterested smile, he’d looked through Cris, as if he hadn’t even existed!

 

Well, it had made Cris furious. Because they had both known then that it would be Cris winning the award that night and Messi’s deliberate ignoring had made him feel small and, well, fuck that feeling.

 

So he’d said something snide. He couldn’t even remember what now. But it had turned into… well, not an argument as such, but it had been bad.

 

He remembered that after a few jibes back and forth, Messi had finally, gloriously, flushed with anger, his eyes flashing, and Cris has felt like he’d won. That emotion had been all he’d wanted.

 

“Fuck off,” Leo had said, all attempt at faux politeness vanished, his eyes glittering with rage.

 

Cris had kept a smirk on his face, designed to infuriate Messi to the fullest. “Isn’t it going to be fun when I go up there and win the award and you have to sit and watch and pretend to be happy for me?”

 

Messi’s jaw had ticked. “I have other things to be happy about.”

 

Cris felt the shot as if it went straight to his heart. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

And then Messi had smirked, his lashes sweeping down. Cris had felt the rage bubbling in his chest and hadn’t been able to stop himself. “Is this about your stupid fake MSN friendship? Just because I don’t have a Neymar or a Suarez slobbering all over my dick, I’m not happy?”

 

Messi’s eyes had been flinty. “Funny that you think I only have two friends. Must be a big number for you when you have none.”

 

Cris had pretended to think. “Oh, right, I forgot about Kun. Your little puppy dog, following you around with his tail wagging.”

 

That hit home.  “Don’t talk about him that way,” Messi had said, shaking with anger.

 

Cris had tipped his head back, smiling lazily. “You know what? You can keep them all. I’ll keep the award.”

 

Messi’s smile has been cold, almost triumphant. “You gotta have something to hold at night, after all.” And, with that, he’d left to go onstage.

 

Cris never forgot those words, nor how much they hurt. He never forgot all the years of arguments they’d had, the endless barbs exchanged. Messi had always known exactly what to say to draw the most blood and Cris hadn’t held back either. Messi’s words, for some reason, had hurt worse than any journalistic criticism of him. Knowing that Messi, the guy everyone loved, secretly despised and hated him, hurt in a way he couldn’t explain. It felt as if he knew the real Messi, as if he knew how horrible and hateful he could be.

 

He just hated Lionel Messi.

 

Until it happened.

 

* * *

 

It was supposed to be fun. He’d enjoyed the 2014 World Cup final and the Copa 2015 final immensely. Watching Messi lose back-to-back had been deeply satisfying and kept him in a gleeful mood all summer. That Copa 2015, especially, had been delightful after stupid Barcelona had won the treble the month before.

 

He’d watched Messi’s cold, quiet expression on the field after the loss and felt like he’d won, again and again and again. People had called Messi a bottler and it had been hugely amusing.

 

He hadn’t felt guilty either. Why should he? He was sure Messi would have done the same and, besides, Messi was an asshole. He’d been a jackass to Cris numerous times over their career—why should he feel sorry for Messi now?

 

When he’d found out that there was going to be a Copa 2016, Cris had been secretly worried. Who was to say that this wouldn’t be the lucky time? He’d been anxious all the way to the final until Messi had missed that penalty. Man, that had been glorious.

 

And then they’d lost! Cris had been alone that night, watching on his couch, sitting in the darkness, his son fast asleep, and he’d almost rolled in delight. And, then, then it happened.

 

They had shown Messi on the field, openly sobbing, his face screwed up in emotion, and Kun behind him, his forehead pressed into Messi’s back, squeezing Messi’s shoulders, trying to comfort him. Chilean players came over to offer their support but Messi couldn’t stop crying.

 

 

Cris felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. He didn’t know why it stunned him, but he had never really seen Messi display that emotion, had never seen him cry, had never seen him small and vulnerable and so visibly in pain. He’d always seemed so arrogant and cold and fake, Cris felt as if Messi had lifted the veil and shown the world who he really was: just a person who had wanted to win for his country.

 

He rewinded it twice and then prompty deleted the recording, his stomach squeezing and roiling. Filled with anxiety, he went to his gym and ran for two hours, even after his whole body ached and burned with pain. By hour two, when he’d finished running, sweat pouring down his face, he was aware that he was crying too, but he didn’t know why.

 

Or maybe he didn’t want to figure out why.

 

* * *

 

The next time he saw Messi, it was at the Clasico. Over the last few months, Cristiano had been unable to get Messi off his mind. He didn’t even know why. He’d started actually watching Barcelona matches, just to watch Messi. One day, shamefully, he’d checked Messi’s Instagram tagged pictures, just to see how his vacation was going. He felt strangely better when he saw Messi laughing and joking with his family, relaxed and happy.

 

He didn’t understand his newfound obsession—no, not an obsession, just a casual interest—but it was undeniable. He was completely anxious about seeing him again in the next Clasico, which was embarrassing enough. But especially when he’d resorted to secretly stalking a Messi fan account on Twitter just to see what Messi was up to.

 

They only spoke in front of the cameras, but Cris made an effort, reaching out for a hug and some casual conversation. Messi had been cold as usual, but this time there had been a niggle of doubt in his eyes—as if he hadn’t understood what Cris was up to. Almost suspicious, like he was worried it was all a trick. Maybe he thought it was for PR. Cris really didn’t care.

 

The truth was, something had happened since that night he’d watched Messi cry. Something fundamentally transformational.

 

He didn’t hate Messi anymore.

 

* * *

 

Cris was nervous. He was waiting for Messi to show up backstage to the Ballon D’Or ceremony. Messi liked to come just right before it was considered late—he clearly didn’t like socializing with everyone, preferred his space.

 

Previously, Cris would have thought Messi was too arrogant to talk to anyone else, but now he was inclined to think that maybe Messi really was that quiet. Maybe he really didn’t like hanging out with people who weren’t his friends.

 

When Messi walked in, Cris felt his heart stutter a little in his chest. He looked good—didn’t he always?—and when he saw Cris, he nodded in greeting, staying across the room. But Jr next to him was tugging his arm, wanting to meet Messi. Some of Cris’ obsession had rubbed off on Junior and he’d started to like Messi, too. Cris’ mom didn’t get it, but who cared if she did?

 

“Go,” Cris murmured, gently pushing him forward. “Go say hi.”

 

Messi seemed to notice that the child was fidgeting, wanting to come over. His face broke out into a genuine smile and he came over, his eyes warm. He bent over and kissed Junior lightly, asking, “How’re you doing?”

 

Junior was too starstruck, too embarrassed to answer. He just looked down. Later, he would crow and scream about this with Cris. Cris smiled, his heart warm and full. “He watches your videos on YouTube,” Cris offered, his pulse racing. He met Messi’s eyes nervously.

 

Messi’s smile was a little strained as if he didn’t believe Cris, as if he didn’t trust him. But his hand lightly rubbed over Junior’s hair and then he moved away, his body language stiff and uncomfortable.

 

Cris watched him and thought that this was one of their first interactions in ages that hadn’t been full of bile.

 

A beginning.

~~

 

Later, when they were waiting to go onstage, alone together in awkward silence, Cris cleared his throat and said, “So… how’s everything going?”

 

Messi looked confused and deeply suspicious. “How’s everything going?” he repeated, his eyes scanning Cris’.

 

“Yeah,” Cris said, shrugging. “How’s your… family? Your dad good?”

 

Messi’s brows had knitted together in puzzlement at this line of questioning. “He’s fine. How’s Mendes?”

 

Cris was startled. Oh, right, Messi’s dad was Messi’s agent. “He’s fine. Would you… uh, would you sign a jersey for Junior? He would really like that for his birthday.”

 

Messi’s expression cleared as if he had figured out why Cris was being nice to him. He nodded shortly, his gaze shifting away as if he’d lost interest in the conversation, as if Cris was just another person using him for a favour.

 

Cris cursed himself. Fuck. He’d just been trying to make conversation. He tried again. “Hey, man, I just want to say that I’m sorry about Argentina… It was—”

 

“Don’t,” Messi said harshly, his head whipping around. “Don’t do this. I won’t take it.”

 

Cris held up his hands. “Whoa! I really was just offering—”

 

“Don’t pretend,” Messi said, his eyes flashing in rage. “Don’t do this. We never brought Argentina and Portugal into this—don’t start.”

 

“Leo,” Cris said, surprising himself. He’d never used Leo’s first name out loud, although his mind had been slowly shifting over for ages. “I… I really wasn’t trying to do anything, I swear. I just wanted to offer my… condolences.” Immediately, he winced. That was the wrong word.

 

Messi’s eyes were blank suddenly, hollow. “My god,” he said very quietly. “You pity me, don’t you?”

 

“No!” Cris cried, reaching forward to place a hand on Messi’s shoulder. Messi flinched, jerking away, his eyes dark and in pain. Cris withdrew his hand, his heart pulsing in self-disgust. “No, Leo… I just… I don’t pity you! I was just offering you some support as a colleague, Leo—”

 

“Don’t call me Leo,” Messi said. His face was mostly in the shadows now, the harsh light falling on his cheekbones. “I don’t want… I don’t want this. Just treat me the way you used to, okay? I don’t want this.” He was shaking his head, over and over, and Cris felt a huge wave of grief coming over him—that football had done this to Messi, that it hade made him so raw, so full of pain, so vulnerable.

 

“I just want us to be colleagues.” Cris took a deep breath. “Or friends.”

 

Messi’s head snapped back to Cris, his eyes huge. They stared at each other in the darkness until Messi’s name was called onstage and he left immediately, snapping out of a trance. He didn’t look back at Cris, but later, much later, when they were leaving the ceremony in their separate cars, as Cris was about to slide into his limo, he saw Leo watching, his expression careful and puzzled.

 

Hesitating, Cris resisted the urge to wave or smile and instead turned away, shutting the car door. He watched from inside the black windows, a one-sided view, as Leo turned away, walking to his own car.

 

* * *

 

They didn’t see each other until the next Clasico and, this time, when Ronaldo offered a hug and a greeting, Leo’s expression was calmer, more watchful. He clearly still didn’t understand what Cris was about, but he was more accepting, less suspicious. Cris counted it as a win.

 

When they walked off the field to the locker room, Cris took a deep breath and thought, _Now or never_.

 

He made his way over to the Barcelona locker room and knocked on the door. Pique opened the door and his eyes widened in shock. “Hey, man,” Pique said, offering a hand. “Everything good?”

 

Cris nodded, shaking Pique’s hands. He didn’t much like Pique, but he could tolerate him on any given day. Besides, it wasn’t what he was here for. The locker room had gone silent behind Pique, as if shocked.

 

“I wanted to know…” Cris said, feeling embarrassed and wretched. “If I could maybe have a word with Leo?” He flushed as the name came out of his mouth. He had forgotten how to call Messi by his last name now.

 

Pique was silent for maybe a beat too long, but then, his blue eyes hard on Cris’, he called, “Leo? You got a minute?”

 

When Leo came up behind Pique, Cris couldn’t see him anymore—he was just that small next to Pique’s giant frame. Cris could see Leo’s hand gently pushing at Pique’s side and, finally, Pique gave in, his jaw tight. He was clearly possessive and protective of Leo.

 

Leo was barechested, his hair still damp from the game. He looked small and pale and very vulnerable. Cris kept his gaze on Leo’s forehead so as not to be inappropriate. “Hey… Could we maybe talk somewhere? Privately?”

 

Leo’s eyes were shuttered, but he nodded. He left the locker room, shutting the door behind him and following Cris. Walking down the hallway blindly, Cris randomly tried a door and, finding it unlocked and unused, moved into the room. It looked like an office of some sort. He held the door open for Leo so as Leo stepped inside, he had to move around Cris’ body, the proximity bringing them close enough that Cris’ shirt brushed against Leo’s naked upper half, the warmth stinging.

 

Cris shut the door, leaning against it, looking at Leo. Leo was standing in clear tension, his body tight, his limbs wound up as if he was ready to fight. Only his face was calm and clear, though expressionless.

 

“Hi,” Cris said, his voice soft.

 

“Hey.” Leo’s voice croaked and he had to clear his throat before trying again. It made his cheeks flush and Cris watched, weirdly fascinated by the pink colour washing over Leo’s face.

 

“I just… wanted to say hi. How’re you doing?”

 

Cris knew he was taking a risk, knew pushing like this could lead to trouble. But Leo appeared calmer this time and he wasn’t angry. “I’m fine,” Leo said. “How’re you?”

 

Cris nodded. “I’m good.” He smiled crookedly. “We’re going to win the Champions League this year.”

 

Normally, that would have led to a fight, but something had eased between them. Leo smiled. “Are you?” he said softly.

 

Cris grinned. “Yeah.”

 

They smiled at each other in amicable silence, silence that was a little awkward to be sure, but still friendly. “Well,” Leo said, stepping forward. “I should go.”

 

Cris nodded, his heart sinking a little despite himself. He didn’t move away from the door even as Leo approached. When he was near enough, Leo waited, standing patiently next to the door frame for Cris to move. Finally, Leo smiled and said, “If Madrid win the Champions this year, we’re going to have to fight.”

 

Startled, Cris met his gaze. They were standing very close and he could appreciate how small Leo was now. Then he realised Leo was joking. Grinning, he straightened. “That’s so unlike us.”

 

Leo’s laugh was just a huff through his nose, but it was a laugh nonetheless. Cris felt his heart pounding in triumph. Leo reached behind him and placed his hand on the doorknob, a clear hint to Cris to get out of the way.

 

Cris waited one long second before shifting just enough for Leo to have to slip past him, their bodies brushing a little. Cris could see the colour in Leo’s cheeks as he moved past him and he leaned against the wall, grinning.

 

To think he had once hated Lionel Messi.

 

* * *

 

They saw each other next at a FIFA media day. It was maybe six or seven weeks since the previous incident and they hadn’t spoken or communicated since then. But Cris had watched all of Leo’s matches faithfully, had marveled at his skill. He wondered if Leo watched him too, if Leo admired his talent too.

 

He would never know, probably.

 

While they were taping Neymar’s interview, Cris slipped out of his dressing room. He made his way down the hall, looking for Leo’s name on the doors. Heart pounding, he came across it and knocked.

 

A pretty blonde assistant opened the door. Her eyes widened comically at seeing Cris. “Oh, hello, sir! Do you have the wrong room?”

 

“Hi,” he said, smiling, turning on his full charm. He could see her visibly reddening. “I wanted to talk to Leo, actually. Can you ask him if he’s got a moment?”

 

“Send him in!” a voice called from within and Cris recognized it at Leo’s. Immediately, his pulse began to race, excitement fluttering in his stomach.

 

When he moved into the room and finally spied Leo, he broke out into a grin. Leo looked good, his hair and makeup having been done by a professional team. Leo smiled back at him before turning to all the gobsmacked people in the room. “Hey, can you all give us a few minutes? I’ll text you when I need you back.”

 

They all left, sending sideways glances at Cris, clearly all in a fever of excitement. Cris bit back his amusement, chewing on the inside of his cheek in an effort not to smile. When he met Leo’s own amused eyes, he couldn’t help himself and they began to laugh. The last thing Leo’s entourage saw as they closed the door was Ronaldo and Messi laughing together, a sight unseen.

 

“Sit,” Leo said, waving him to a seat, when he’d finally stopped laughing. Leo seemed comfortable and relaxed this time, the most relaxed Cris had ever seen.

 

Cris sat. The chair had wheels and, without thinking, he rolled forward to come right near Leo, their knees bumping. Again, he watched that wash of colour in Leo’s face, but Leo didn’t move away.

 

“What’s up?”

 

Cris shook his head, stealing one of the grapes on the fruit platter in front of Leo. “Just thought I’d say hi. Been a while.” He swallowed the grape as Leo waited. “Guess what, though?”

 

“What?”

 

“I won the Champions League.” For a second, he worried that Leo would be offended, but Leo’s eyes began to sparkle.

 

“Does that mean…?”

 

Cristiano nodded gravely. “We’re going to have to fight.”

 

Leo’s expression was very solemn. “I guess we’ll have to. Physically or…?”

 

Cristiano raised his eyebrows. “You think you can win against me physically? You’re a shrimp.”

 

Leo’s grin was irresistible. “A fast shrimp.”

 

Cristiano laughed. “You are pretty fast.”

 

Leo shrugged. “It’s hard to be fast around your guys, though. Your midfield is so good.”

 

“True, but I’ve seen you around other teams. You’re pretty damn fast.”

 

Leo’s eyes were arrested. “You’ve watched me play?”

 

For some reason, Cristiano’s face grew warm. What was the big deal? They were both football players. Of course they watched a lot of football. But something in Leo’s question unwound Cris, exposed him in a way he couldn’t quite explain. He tried to be nonchalant. “Of course. Haven’t you watched me?” he asked as if he didn’t care about the answer.

 

“Well,” Leo said, and Cris felt his heart sink. “Well, more recently. Than before.” Leo avoided his gaze as if the confession meant something, which it did. Why recently? Had he become “interested” the way Cris had? What did it mean?

 

Cris tried not to give into the giddy feeling in his stomach. Instead, he nodded. “Well,” he said, his heart beating fast. “I should probably go.” He checked his watch. “I’m supposed to be getting hair and makeup right now.”

 

Leo nodded, his eyes lifting up to meet Cris’ as Cris stood up. “See you soon?”

 

A warm feeling slipped up Cris’ spine. He nodded. “I hope so,” he said honestly. He turned to leave the room, but he could feel Leo’s gaze on his back, those dark eyes trained on Cris.

 

* * *

 

Over the next few times they met, it was more of the same. Halting, stolen moments. A small, gentle awkward friendship beginning. They still hadn’t exchanged numbers, though it would have been easy for Cris to get it off anybody. He didn’t know why he hadn’t. Probably for the same reason Leo hadn’t either.

 

But he was grateful for Leo’s friendship, even though they didn’t meet as often as he liked. He felt like they’d started to trust each other, as if they were just beginning to like each other and enjoy the other’s company. It had become harder and harder to leave Leo during their conversations, harder and harder not to wait impatiently for the next one.

 

He didn’t know what it was about Leo that had captured his interest—still casual, of course—but it had happened nevertheless. He was also aware that his feelings were teetering into something else, but he was afraid to examine it too closely.

 

Mainly because he wasn’t sure those feelings were reciprocated.

 

When the World Cup rolled around, Cris was almost too preoccupied with his own team to worry about Leo’s. Argentina was too weak this time to really get anywhere, but Portugal, with some luck and some miracles, could.

 

But, of course, the morning Leo crashed out, Cris really really wished he had Leo’s number. Just to say hi. Just to call him. Anything.

 

But there was no time to dwell on it and a few hours later, he, too, was experiencing heartbreak at the biggest stage. When he left the stadium, the only thing he could think of was Messi, wanting to see him, wanting to talk to him.

 

Nobody else would really understand but Leo. Nobody else was really the savior of their team the way the two of them were. Nobody else could understand the immense pressure on their shoulders.

 

He asked Mendes for Leo’s flight details and got it in five minutes. Mendes was a whiz anyway and it was easy enough. Leo was going home on a private plane and Cris asked Mendes to ask Leo if he could join.

 

Mendes replied back with absolute certainty: _Of course he won’t want that_

 

But Cris texted back: _Just ask_.

 

So Mendes did and Leo said yes. He delayed his flight for a few hours for Cris to come on board and when Cris finally boarded the plane, his heart pounding in anxiety and grief, the first person he saw was Leo, sitting in a corner, his eyes closed.

 

“Leo,” he said, his voice strong.

 

Leo’s eyes flashed open and his eyes met Cris’ across the plane and, suddenly, Cris knew that Leo had the same feelings for him too: the same confusing, giddy feelings that Cris had been harbouring for almost a year and a half now.

 

Cris came over to him and, gently, lifted Leo to his feet, tugging on his hand. He could see Leo’s eyes were reddened with grief and slowly, carefully, he bent down and kissed him, saying in the kiss what he couldn’t say with words.

 

Leo’s mouth moved under his, soft and wet, and he pressed himself against Cristiano in urgency, needing comfort. Cris felt his own pain slip away when Leo’s pain was in his hands, as if Leo’s grief was more important to him than his own.

 

They broke apart as the engine began to rev and Cristiano sat on a seat, urging Leo into his lap. Leo climbed on him, knees on either side of Cris’ hips and they began to kiss again, their mouths hot and desperate, their teeth catching, their tongues sliding, their bodies pressing and writhing together.

 

Leo was taller than him in this angle and Cris had to arch his neck up to kiss Leo, even as his hands slid up Leo’s back and then down onto his buttocks. He pressed Leo’s bottom even closer, their erections rubbing in their jeans, the pressure good and hot and hard.

 

Leo made a soft cry as the plane began to take off, as the sounds of the wheels on the runway grew into a deafening roar, and as Cristiano reached for his jeans to free Leo’s cock.

 

He rubbed Leo’s cock with a tight fist, jerking him off patiently, the skin moving smoothly and deftly as Leo panted into Cris’ mouth, as his mouth pressed even harder. When he came, he didn’t make a sound, only tensing hard as his kiss became erratic and distracted. The only indication Cris had was Leo’s cock pulsing in his hand, jerking as he came and came and came.

 

But Leo wasn’t done. He rolled and writhed as they kept kissing, Cristiano’s own arousal still burgeoning. “Fuck me,” Leo whispered into Cris’ mouth and Cris didn’t hesitate.

 

He freed his cock from his jeans, but there was no lube. Frustrated, Leo whined into Cris’ mouth as he bucked, already hard again and ready to go. Then Cris remembered the hand lotion he’d taken from the hotel and placed in his bag. Luckily, the bag was right next to him and he rummaged inside for the lotion before taking it out.

 

He uncapped it and was ready to slick himself, but Leo beat him to it. Scooping out the lotion he lubed Cristiano’s hot, hard dick, letting his fist pump up and down a little while Cris moaned in pleasure, reaching for Leo’s mouth to release some of the tension.

 

When Leo was done, he dumped a little more lotion onto Cris’ fingers before murmuring, “Don’t take too long.” He rose up on his knees, allowing Cris better access to his ass.

 

Cris slipped a finger inside blindly, pressing downwards in search of the prostate. He barely brushed it before withdrawing and placing another finger, and then another. Leo bucked in his arms, writhing in pleasure, desperate and aroused.

 

“Enough, enough,” Leo said, his breaths hot and hard on Cris’ mouth.

 

Cris didn’t wait. He held his dick and then angled upwards. Leo used his own hand to guide Cris’ cock into him, slowly sinking into him, inch by inch, closing his eyes as his ass swallowed Cris’ cock.

 

“Fuck,” Cris breathed, overwhelmed by the sight of his dick disappearing into Leo, at how arousing this was.

 

Leo began to bounce, his ass dragging slowly on Cris’ cock, angling it so it would brush his prostate. His eyes were closed, but Cris pulled him down to kiss him and Leo began to moan into Cris’ mouth. He made small needy sounds in his throat, raw and desperate and pleasured.

 

When Leo felt comfortable enough, stretched enough to start moving in earnest, he began to moan. He was rising and falling as fast as he could on Cristiano’s cock, but it wasn’t enough—more torturous than anything. Cris helped out by reaching underneath, holding Leo’s bottom steadily, before beginning to piston his cock inside Leo’s ass.

 

Leo’s mouth fell open, his head falling back in pleasure, eyes closed as he kept murmuring _yes_ , as Ronaldo watched his face, feeling possessive and warm and hot and, fuck, this was good.

 

He would never get tired of Leo’s ass, never get tired of fucking him. He was ruined forever, ruined by Leo, ruined ruined ruined.

 

And then Leo whined, low in throat, his face in grimace as he began to come, squeezing Cris’s shoulders in hands. His cock jerked against his abdomen, untouched, as Leo came hard, shuddering in Cris’ arms.

 

Cris waited until he was sure Leo was done before again raising Leo’s ass with his hands and just pounding away, uncaring about Leo’s pleasure now. Leo wrapped his arms around Cris’ shoulders and lay, boneless, as Cris fucked into him. When Cris came, he half-bellowed into Leo’s ear, clutching him tightly as he pulsed into Leo’s ass.

 

They kissed lazily, Cris’ softening cock still inside him, tender and overstimulated, Leo’s ass slightly sore but in a good way.

 

“Do you still wanna fight?” Cris whispered.

 

“We just did,” Leo murmured back between kisses, smiling.

 

Cris grinned.

 

Oh, he just loved Lionel Messi.


End file.
